The Art of Forgetting Read Free

sassiness. She was always at least one step ahead of me and, despite my misgivings, I found myself agreeing to talk to him if he called. I was to tell him to meet me after work by Leicester Square Station on the corner of Charing Cross Road and Cranbourne Street. We’d be perfectly safe – we wouldn’t approach him – but would observe from a distance how long he waited, enjoy his discomfort, then go for a drink and laugh about it. That would be all.
    I did worry about it a little, but really I didn’t think he would call. He wouldn’t want to be rejected twice. However, I had only been in the office an hour or so when the phone rang and then I knew it would be him. Bob was talking to Mr Jones, Sandy wasn’t in yet and there was no-one else particularly near by, so it was my choice. Should I pick up the phone, tell him to get lost and let Linda believe he had never called back, or should I take part in this little adventure? It was well out of my comfort zone, but how would I ever lose my innocence and inexperience if I didn’t push myself a little?
    A few minutes and it was done, although I found the whole thing excruciatingly difficult and my heart was beating fit to jump out of my chest.
    “Hello, it’s me again.”
    “Hello.”
    “Did you think about what I said?”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh. Well, that’s good. At least I … What did you decide?”
    “Well, I thought it might be OK, just for a quick drink,” I said. I was sure I could hear his breathing grow faster so I rushed through the arrangements and replaced the receiver as if it were on fire, but now I regretted picking it up at all. I didn’t even know his name. This was scary, but there was also the fact that he had sounded so pleased. Somehow, although none of this had been my idea, I found myself feeling guilty at the deception. What if he wasn’t Linda’s married man, but some poor lonely chap who had taken all his courage to approach someone he liked the look of? I told myself it was too late to do anything about it now and he would get over it, even if he was innocent. I got on with my work and said nothing about it when the others came in.
    Linda was delighted, no, more than that, she was ecstatic when I told her about it later. It wasn’t often that we travelled back together, but she saw me on the platform and pushed her way through the ranks of commuters to stand beside me.
    “Anything?”
    For a moment, I toyed with the idea of not telling her; letting it all go. The only harm done would be to the man. I thought of him waiting impatiently outside the Tube and scanning the crowds. Still, if he was married he deserved it, and if he wasn’t – well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. But then I had a vision of us standing somewhere over the road, perhaps in a doorway, maybe even in disguise, and I felt a rush of excitement. What could go wrong? And we would have such a laugh, and Linda would take me somewhere for a drink and we would laugh some more. It would be like opening another door, a door to a nightlife I had only glimpsed on the few occasions I had been to Oxford Street after work and caught a later train home.
    “Yes, he phoned.”
    “No! Really? What did you say?”
    I told her about the arrangement, affecting a nonchalance I did not feel, and it was clear from that moment there would be no turning back. Linda talked about little else throughout the journey. She even took an envelope from her bag and sketched the junction where the assignation was to take place, marking the entrance to the Tube with a cross and talking through the relative merits of the places we might stand to observe him. It was as if we were spies and he was an enemy agent, instead of a man who had taken a fancy to a young girl he had seen on a train. For a moment it felt like being in a film, unreal but vividly lit. We were on the train but it seemed like a set, with the backdrop of London projected behind us whilst we were stationary, acting out our